


Dreams and Visions

by laissemoidanser



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, post-carcosa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laissemoidanser/pseuds/laissemoidanser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to cope with existence after Carcosa, but it's easier when you're not alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Visions

 

**~ I ~**

 

The night is strikingly silent. Its velvet embrace soothed the whole world to slumber under the veil of dreams filled with stars. Its sweet yet astringent silence is disturbed only by its wavy frequent breathing, declared and performed by a small army of crickets. Heady twilight disappears far beyond and dissolves into the colors blue and purple across the unreachable dome of the sky, gleams with red and yellow by the line of horizon, reflecting thousands of city lights, so far away from here.

Rust sits on the porch steps and observes the palette of colors in which this night appears before him through cigarette smoke. As he inhales it, a spark of light burns brighter in the dark. The moonlight slides over the planes of his face when he tilts his head, watching fireflies assemble around flowers on the lawn. With his hands folded on his knees Rust’s rocking back and forth slightly to the beat of his thoughts, his heart still pounding heavily after that dream....

A loud rattling noise somewhere from the house breaks the silence, followed by Marty’s deep and profound "The fuck…!"

Rust turns his head around not bothering to take the cigarette out from his mouth, the corner of his lips already quirked up in ironic half smile. He still hasn’t made up his mind to unpack his stuff from the boxes, which he and Marty arranged by the staircase for the time being. Thing is, Marty keeps forgetting about it.

"Rust! Motherfuck… Where the hell are you?" Marty shouts muffled somewhere behind the walls - in the corridor between the living room and the bathroom, Rust figures. “I’m not gonna hunt you down in every fucking corner again. Get your ass in bed!"

"I’m comin’, Marty."

And Rust turns back to the contemplation of nature again, to the thoughts about his dream. After Carcosa nightmares torment Marty, Rust – sees dreams, but he never experienced anything quite like that one before. He raises his eyes to the sky and recalls the endless valley, recalls his way through the swamps where at some point he remembered that he was looking for something, had been looking in vain for a long time actually. His feet kept bogging down in the mud, his eyelids were heavy, and his eyes were smarting as if full of sand, but he kept going, determined, confident that over the next hill he’d find his salvation. And then he saw him - the King. At first he loomed somewhere along the edges of Rust’s consciousness, but then he came out to meet him. His yellow robes dragged endlessly behind him and covered the entire valley, were part of it. A thorny crown on his head, illuminated by the sun, was shining bright like gold, and he was coming at Rust, but Rust wasn’t scared this time. He stopped and watched as the King was uncovering his face, lowering the corner of his huge folded hood, trying to get a better look at his guest, who dared to invade his world. Rust was prepared to see something horrible and disgusting, but instead he was struck by his beauty. The King chose to show him only a part of his face, his eyes - shiny emeralds of bright light, they reflected the sun and the endless valley and the whole of the universe, they fascinated.

With silent gesture he beckoned Rust to follow him, made him aware – you’re needed, you’re waited for and you must go right now. Rust started walking then, but each step was harder and heavier to take, he wanted to move on and he knew that if he made one more step, he would see Sofia – just one more. But he stopped. He turned around.

A heavy sigh from behind brings him back from his musings, Rust turns around – and it’s Marty, sleepy-eyed and weary, came out to him at last.

“The hell you doing here? Told you to go back to bed.”

Marty is tense, withdrawn, not quite awake.

“You had that nightmare again?” Rust asks him though he already knows Marty did, otherwise, he wouldn’t start looking for him all around the house at this hour.

Without response Marty comes out on the porch to sit down on the step by his side, Rust turns away, takes one more drag on his cigarette and puts it out on a wooden rail. Marty lands down close to him, with a sigh and creaking in his knees, scaring away all the fireflies in the grass.

“Such a good night today,” he says, casting his eyes over the starry skyline when the moon peeps from behind the branches of trees and quiet harmony settles again.

“What you thinking here about?

“A dream. Had a good one”.

“About your little girl?”

Rust nods, a ghost of smile playing on his lips.

“And the Yellow King”

Marty throws him a sideway glance unable to believe what he’s hearing.

“It was so different this time, Marty,” – Rust assures him. “I've even seen his face, a part of it he showed me – he was fucking beautiful, I tell you. I wanted to go after him. Knew that if I do, he’ll lead me to her”.

“That's so? And this pretty face, what did he tell you?

“Nothing. I refused to go. And I woke up”.

“Well good. Shouldn’t hang around with strangers”.

For a while they sit in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, but those thoughts are now distorted by each other’s presence, side by side, in the stillness of the night, in the emptiness of the world.

“You wanna know why I refused to go?” Rust asks quietly and gently.

Marty lowers his eyes before he nods.

“Didn’t want to leave you here,” whole eternity revolves around them with dazzling speed, but time has no meaning when such words are told. “I’m happy with you”.

Marty doesn’t look up and stares purposely at one spot somewhere on the grass dried under the scorching afternoon sun, but few seconds later he can’t help it - a smile spreads across his lips, giving out the fact that all his gloomy thoughts and nightmares vanished without a trace, absorbed by the warm darkness of the night and taken away. And then Rust leans to him, puts his arm over his shoulders, kisses him, lips lingering on a sensitive spot between the sharply defined line of his jaw and his ear, hides his face in the crook of his neck. “I _am_ happy with you”. Marty leans into Rust, feeling his warm breath against his neck and rubs his eye, totally because something got in there, not because for a split second a tear flashed in the moonlight.

“I am too, with you, Rust. Gonna be, soon as you get rid of that dumb bristly stash of yours”.

They laugh.

 

**~ II ~**

 

Marty steps out of the car, gets a bag from the trunk and makes the rest of the way to the house. A cold gust of dry wind almost snatches the bag out of his hands; he barely manages to catch it in time. Marty’s visibly distressed, lost deep in clingy thought. He opens the door and just as he walks in, another, more powerful blast of wind all but slams it behind his back.

“Rust!” Marty calls out. Refusing to wait till the howling of the wind dies down behind the walls, he announces, “I'm home!”

"Oooohhh," responds the wind and laughs with rustle of dry leaves on the ground outside.

“Goddamn,” Marty remarks to himself quietly. He throws the keys on the table, heads upstairs. The door to Rust’s room is opened just a crack and Marty pushes it cautiously to step in, floorboards creak under his feet, but Rust doesn’t give any sign of recognizing his intrusion.

“Hey, Rust,” Marty addresses him again, but Rust doesn’t seem to hear, his vacant gaze glued to the television screen, where he watches that same old as time comedy movie for what may as well be the millionth time. Rust stares, and it looks like he’s lost so deep in his mind that he may not come back at all. Marty places the bag down on the table next to his couch.

“Brought you some oranges, like you asked. Thought they’d do you good,” he says, pulling one huge ripe fruit from the bag and holding it out.

No reaction. Rust doesn’t even stir.

Suddenly the wind bursts into the room, throwing the window wide open. The dusk is gaining around outside and smudges of bizzare pink and dirty-grey are spilling in the sky. Marty rushes to the window, covering his face from the dust with his hand, but freezes in spot as he reaches for the window frame. There, on a deserted road he sees a wandering man. At first, Marty figures it’s their new neighbor, and he is about to shout at the poor fellow that his house is just in the opposite direction, that he better hurry up, because storm is about to break out. But as he looks, he realizes that this man isn’t the neighbor. He wanders down the road, dragging his feet, putting both his hands forward, against swirls of dust meandering around him, leading him astray. His tie is twisting around his neck in the wind, threatening to tighten the noose and choke him; his jacket is inflated with air like wings, about to tear him off the ground and carry away like a molecule of dust. Marty peers into this silhouette and.... can it be possible ... this shadow of a man looks like himself... frighteningly so much like himself....

“Marty!” Marty looks around at Rust who’s shortly back from his state of trance. “Marty, shut the fucking window, don’t stand in a draught too long. Gonna catch a cold”.

Marty looks out at the street one more time, but the street is empty. Could it be a vision? He closes the latch safely and walks back to Rust.

“Hey,” Marty puts his hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. Rust slowly blinks once. It feels like dust is about to come falling from his eyes, so long he sat here motionless. His hair falls loosely to his shoulders, he is wrapped in a woolen blanket and it’s not the first day Marty finds him in this room, on this couch, staring at the same old movie.

“Thanks for the oranges,” Rust drawls out.

“If you need anything, you just tell me, okay?” Marty still keeps his hand on Rust’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

Most shameless lie to ever reach Marty’s ears. Rust is like a walking corpse, pale as a ghost, thin and fragile. But he would not comply to return to the hospital and Marty gave up trying to reason with him.

“Good. That’s good,” Marty smiles, gently tucking a long lock of hair, touched with silver now, behind Rust’s ear and turns to leave, when Rust grips his hand, not letting him.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and looks up at Marty, eyes suddenly so blue and full of life in contrast to his pinched features.

“My room. Figured, if you don’t need nothing else ...”

“Stay”.

Marty glances at the TV screen. Hundreds of times he had seen this movie back in the years with Maggie and has absolutely no idea why Rust has grown so fond of this shit. But anything will do as long as it helps him feel better, so Marty wouldn’t utter a word of protest. He takes off his jacket, his sweater, remains standing in a cooled air in his jeans and a t-shirt. Rust lifts the corner of the blanket, encouraging him to get under it beside him. When Marty does, he covers them both with it.

The wind outside gone totally unruly in the grey dusk, raising clouds of dust and chasing them down the street, lifting and throwing trash around, knocking dumpster lids along the way. But it may rage, rip and tear - Marty and Rust are warm under their woolen blanket and even the stupid movie turns out to be quite enjoyable.

Marty slides his hand under Rust’s shirt, fingertips barely touching his scars in a soothing caress, but Rust winces.

“Does it hurt?” Marty removes his hand at once.

“No”.

“And if you try and be honest with me?”

Rust looks him in the eye.

“Like son of a bitch. Nothing I can’t handle”.

“Marty”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me, do you need me here?”

Marty frowns at a particularly funny comedy scene.

“What kind of question is that supposed to be?”

“It’s just ... I stick here in your house all the time, occupying your space, bothering you with all this shit...”

“Shut up, Rustin, don’t wanna listen to none of this gibberish,” Marty shrugs him off, then gives him a look of concern. “What, you don’t wanna stay?”

“It's not that,” Rust looks at him almost piteously.

“So what is it then?”

“Tell me, do you need _me_? You spit it out, man – cause if you don’t, we'll leave it at that, and if ...”

“And if I do?”

“Then please - _please_ \- Marty, tell me you ain’t leaving me”.

“You think I would’ve dragged your ever-suffering ass here, if I didn’t need you? Would’ve gone hunting for the damn fruit in the gale warning? You'll feel better, man, we’ll handle it. Patch you up a little, gonna be as good as new, you'll see. Come on, come here, baby”, and Rust allows to be cuddled in his arms, clings to him as Marty kisses him on the temple, before guiding his mouth down  to his soft lips to plant another kiss, warming and tender, there. End credits are rolling on the screen, but they have forgotten about the movie, listening to their own world.

“Those oranges, though… You know, sir, you’re still gonna eat them, and I refuse to hear any excuses”.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
